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'Twas pity nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you, awhile they glide
Into the grave.

THE LINNET.

R. Licholl.

THE songs of nature, holiest, best are they!
The sad winds sighing thro' the leafy trees,
The lone lake's murmurs to the mountain
breeze;

The streams' soft whispers, as they fondly stray
Through dingles wild, and over flowery lea,
Are sweetly holy; but the purest hymn,
A melody like some old prophet lay-

Is thine poured forth from hedge and thicket dim,

Linnet-wild linnet!

The poor, the scorned and lowly, forth may go Into the woods and dells where leaves are

green

And 'mong the breathing forest flowers may lean,

And hear thy music wandering to and fro, Like sunshine glancing o'er the summer scene. Thou, poor man's songster-neither wealth nor power!

Can match the sweetness thou around dost throw;

Oh, bless thee for the joy of many an hour!
Linnet-wild linnet!

In sombre forest, gray and melancholy,
Yet sweet withal, and full of love and peace,
And 'mid the furze, wrapped in a golden
fleece

Of blossoms, and in hedge-rows green and lowly,
On thymy banks, where wild-bees never cease
Their murmur-song, thou hast thy home of

love;

Like some lone hermit far from sin and folly, 'Tis thine through forest fragrances to rove, Linnet-wild linnet!

Some humble heart is sore and sick with grief, And straight thou comest with thy gentle

song,

To wile the sufferer from his hate or wrong, By bringing nature's love to his relief.

Thou charmest by the sick child's window long,

Till racking pain itself be wooed to sleep; And when away have vanished flower and leaf Thy lonely wailing voice for them doth weep, Linnet-wild linnet!

God saw how much of woe, and grief, and

care,

Man's faults and follies on the earth would make,

And the sweet singer for his creature's sake, He sent to warble wildly everywhere,

And by thy voice our souls to love to wake. Oh, blessed wandering spirit! unto thee Pure hearts are knit as unto things too fair, And good and beautiful of earth to be, Linnet-wild linnet!

PRECEPTS OF FLOWERS.
Anon.

FLOWERS of the field, how meet ye seem
Man's frailty to portray,
Blooming so fair in morning's beam,
Passing at eve away;

Teach this, and oh! though brief your reign,
Sweet flowers, ye shall not live in vain.

Go, form a monitory wreath

For youth's unthinking brow, Go, and to busy mankind breathe

What most he fears to know;

Go, strew the path where age doth tread,
And tell him of the silent dead.

But whilst to thoughtless ones and gay
Ye breathe these truths severe,
To those who droop in pale decay,
Have ye no words of cheer?
yes!

Oh

ye weave a double spell, And death and life betoken well.

Go then, where, wrapt in fear and gloom,
Fond hearts and true are sighing,
And deck with emblematic bloom
The pillow of the dying;

And softly speak, nor speak in vain,
Of the long sleep and broken chain.

And say that He who from the dust
Recalls the slumbering flower,
Will surely visit those who trust

His mercy and His power;

Will mark where sleep their peaceful clay
And roll e'er long the stone away.

THE POOR MAN SPEAKETH ABOUT

TREES.

From Verses by a Poor Man.

How pleasant the waving trees,
The oak, the ash, the birch;
How beautiful the old yew seems

That grows beside the church,

And those tall linden trees, whose boughs
Bring shadows o'er the dead,
Making a gloomy canopy

Over their cold low bed.

The firs that crown the lofty hills
Like giants in their pride;
Or like a darkling thunder cloud,
At even on their side;

O yes! they seem to me to point
Upwards, and mock the skies;
So high their dark plumes wave in air,
So high their spears arise.

The alder tree grows near some stream,
And the yellow willow slender,
O'er which the large palm throws his arms
As if he would defend her.

The silky catkins oft we took

Delighted from the twig,

In childish days and climbed for them,
The trees to us so big.

We filled our little pockets full,
We loved such pretty things;
Oh, childhood ever flees away,
Fast on its golden wings.
And then the fruitful alder tree
Of whose small juicy berry,

The country people make sweet wine,
To drink and to be merry.

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